They that dwell in my house, and my maids,
As an alien am I in their eyes.
I call my servant, and he giveth me no answer,
I must supplicate unto him with my mouth.
CLXXV
My breath is irksome to my wife,
And my entreaty to the children of my body.[228]
Yea, mere lads despise me:
When I arise, they talk about me.
CLXXVI
All my cherished friends abhor me,
And they whom I loved are turned against me;
My skin cleaveth to my bones,
And my teeth are falling out.
CLXXVII
Have pity, have pity on me, O my friends!
For the hand of God hath smitten me.
Why do ye persecute me like God,
And are not satiated with my flesh?
CLXXVIII
Oh would but that my words,
Oh would that they were written down!
Consigned to writing for ever,
Or engraven upon a rock!